Chapter 5 - My Face Was in the Photograph
For several seconds, I could not speak.
Derek filled the silence easily.
He always had.
“Grace?”
“I’m here.”
“You sound tired.”
The familiarity of the comment made my skin crawl.
Six months earlier I would have heard concern.
Now I heard technique.
“How did you get this number?” I asked.
He laughed softly.
“You’ve had the same number for nine years.”
“You haven’t called it for six months.”
“I thought you wanted space.”
“You left me.”
“I know.”
He said it tenderly.
As if we had jointly misplaced something.
“What do you want, Derek?”
Another pause.
“I heard you’ve been talking to Ruth.”
There it was.
“How?”
“I still know people.”
“Which people?”
“Grace, please.”
His voice changed into the patient tone he used whenever he wanted me to feel unreasonable.
“I don’t want to fight.”
“Then don’t call.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“That’s unfair.”
Something inside me almost laughed.
Unfair.
Derek had always loved that word when consequences reached him.
“You told Ruth to invest with Leonard Reese.”
Silence.
Not long.
Maybe one second.
But I knew Derek.
One second was forever.
“I introduced them.”
“She lost her retirement money.”
“I heard.”
“You heard when?”
“Recently.”
“Wrong.”
“Excuse me?”
“She told you before we broke up.”
He exhaled.
“Grace, financial investments fluctuate.”
“She couldn’t withdraw her money.”
“That doesn’t mean it was stolen.”
“Did you know?”
“I knew there were liquidity issues.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It wasn’t your money.”
The sentence was so cold it burned.
“No. It was Ruth’s.”
“I’m saying it was confidential.”
“You used my name to convince Harold Greene.”
“What?”
“We have the note.”
Another pause.
This time longer.
“What note?”
“Your handwriting.”
“Grace, I have no idea what somebody showed you, but if Anton Marquetti is behind this—”
I went still.
“I never said Anton.”
Silence.
Derek recovered.
“People talk.”
“Who told you?”
“Boston isn’t that big.”
“Who told you?”
His voice hardened.
“This is exactly why I called.”
“No. You called because you’re scared.”
“Of Anton?”
“Of me.”
He laughed.
But it sounded different now.
“Grace.”
“You never thought I was stupid.”
“I never said you were.”
“You thought I was harmless.”
That stopped him.
For years, Derek had underestimated me while benefiting from everything I built.
My patience.
My community.
My willingness to believe the best about people.
“You should stay away from Marquetti,” he said.
I almost smiled.
“Why?”
“He’s dangerous.”
“So everyone says.”
“You don’t know what that family is.”
“And you do?”
“I know enough.”
“Apparently you know a lot of things you never bothered to tell me.”
“Grace—”
I ended the call.
My hands shook afterward.
Not from fear.
From adrenaline.
I called Anton.
He answered on the first ring.
“He called.”
“Derek?”
“Yes.”
“Are you home?”
“Yes.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No.”
“What did he say?”
I told him.
When I mentioned Derek knowing about Anton, he became quiet.
“That matters.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Very good question.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
Then Anton continued.
“But not for the reason you think.”
“What reason should I think?”
“He knows the investigation is moving.”
I looked toward my front door.
“Anton.”
“Yes?”
“Is anyone watching my building?”
A pause.
“I have a car outside.”
I walked to the window.
Across the street, beneath an elm tree, sat a black sedan.
“You put someone outside my apartment?”
“I asked them not to be obvious.”
“They failed.”
“I’ll tell them.”
“Anton.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t. You can’t just have people follow me.”
“They aren’t following you.”
“That is not a comforting technical distinction.”
“I was concerned.”
“And I appreciate that.”
He sounded surprised.
“But?”
“But you ask.”
Silence.
Then: “You’re right.”
I blinked.
That had been too easy.
“That’s it?”
“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t know. Argument?”
“My former wife used to tell me I apologized so rarely people assumed it was a medical emergency.”
I smiled despite myself.
“I’ll ask next time,” he said.
“Thank you.”
“Do you want the car to leave?”
I looked at the dark street.
“No.”
Anton laughed quietly.
“Good night, Grace.”
The following afternoon he showed me the photograph again.
This time enlarged.
There were fifteen people visible.
Each face had been labeled.
Seven were members of my outreach program.
Two had lost money.
Three were under investigation.
One had died the previous year.
“What are the boxes?” I asked.
“Classification.”
“Meaning?”
Julia, Anton’s attorney, sat beside us.
“We think the presentation ranked prospects.”
“Prospects.”
I hated the word.
She pointed at small codes beside the names.
“H. O. L. P.”
“What do they mean?”
“We’re not certain.”
I stared.
“Harold is H.”
“Ruth is H too.”
“People who invested heavily,” Anton said.
My eyes moved.
“Margaret Cho is O.”
“She declined the investment,” Julia said.
“O for out?”
“Possibly.”
“Then what is Grace?”
Anton said nothing.
I looked.
Beside my face was a single letter.
A
“What does A mean?”
“We don’t know.”
“Anton.”
“We don’t.”
I examined the photograph.
Derek’s face had no letter.
Instead it had a title.
SOURCE
My stomach turned.
There it was.
Not proof of the entire scheme.
But enough to make denial grotesque.
“What was I?”
Neither answered.
Then I noticed another sheet beneath the photograph.
I pulled it forward.
Anton tried to stop me.
Too late.
It was an internal email.
Most names had been blacked out by investigators.
One sentence remained visible.
Keep G.H. unaware. Her credibility is the asset.
The room disappeared.
I heard Derek’s voice in my kitchen.
Your whole life is too small for me.
I heard myself laughing nervously.
I thought content was a good thing.
It is when you’re seventy.
I had spent six months wondering why he became cruel.
Now I knew.
Derek had not simply grown bored with my life.
He had needed me to stop valuing it.
Because if I ever understood how much trust I held, I might notice someone else was spending it.
I pushed away from the table.
“Asset.”
Anton stood.
“Grace.”
“That’s what A means.”
Nobody corrected me.
“The asset.”
I turned toward the window.
My reflection stared back.
Ordinary.
Brunette.
Thirty-eight.
Library employee.
Second-floor apartment.
Old Honda.
A life Derek had mocked as tiny.
Behind me Anton said, “Look at me.”
I didn’t.
“Grace.”
I turned.
His expression was steady.
“You are not what they wrote.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
My eyes burned.
“They used me.”
“Yes.”
“I introduced him to these people.”
“You introduced your fiancé.”
“I vouched for him.”
“You loved him.”
“I should’ve seen it.”
Anton’s jaw tightened.
“No.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know predators survive by making decent people responsible for their deception.”
I stared at him.
“And you know predators?”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of the answer reminded me who he was.
Or who people believed he was.
“You’re not exactly comforting.”
“I’m working on it.”
A laugh escaped me through tears.
He waited.
Then, slowly, he held out his hand.
Not grabbing me.
Not pulling me closer.
Just offering.
I looked at it.
Then placed my hand in his.
His fingers closed gently.
Warm.
Steady.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Julia’s phone rang.
She answered.
Her face changed.
“What?”
Anton released my hand.
Julia stood.
“Send it to me.”
She ended the call.
“What happened?” I asked.
“Another victim came forward.”
“Who?”
She looked directly at me.
“Someone who says Derek didn’t just use your name.”
My stomach dropped.
“What did he use?”
May you like
“Your signature.”
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